


A Letter To My Abuser

by OnlyLoveHere



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Epistolary, Letter, specific assault details, venting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:30:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyLoveHere/pseuds/OnlyLoveHere





	

Dear CFP,

 

Fuck you. 

I know I say that a lot. 

Especially in reference to you. 

To be fair though, you took seven years of my life, and made yourself the most pivotal thing about them. 

So yeah, fuck you. Fuck you for teaching me how to be mean. You might wonder how and when you taught me how to be mean.

The first time we were in a relationship, we were thirteen. It had essentially no meaning, until you decided that you needed to change. I’m almost certain, that had you not, we would have reached a point where we decided to just go back to friends. 

Seeing as I was your only friend, I seriously question the decision to enter into this relationship in the first place. That’s neither here nor there though, because I ended it in a panic, trying to be as mean to you back to get you to leave me alone. 

Why did you think that being mean to me was okay? 

Why did you think me being mean back was okay? 

Why did you think that a year later, it would be a good idea to try again? 

It only lasted a couple of months this time, but you got to me long before I agreed to be in a romantic relationship.

We were in high school. We thought we were the shit. Some of us more than others. You more than me. You were so smart, but not as smart as you thought. Compared to you, I was so stupid, and small, and immature. Though not nearly much as you wanted me to think. 

You constantly insulted me, and I thought that was normal. So I did it back. 

So fucking toxic. So incredibly fucking terrible. Some mornings, the mornings I didn’t skip school to avoid you, I was honestly sad when you didn’t get on the bus two stops after me. 

Which is horrifying to think about. 

After you dated those girls, and vacillated between telling me all about it, and saying they were uncomfortable with our friendship, I started to suspect you liked being in control

But you were a guy. That was to be expected. It was my job, as the woman to tell you no, and not stand for it. It was never your job to even consider not doing it. 

All through school we did this. Constantly, we would fight, make up, fight, make up, fight, make up, fight, make up. No one thought that was weird. It was our thing. 

So when we dated when we were fifteen, I was expecting it, but I thought it would be different. Everyone told me that I was right, this was normal. It’s just one type of relationship. Sometimes couples bicker. It’s okay. It’s average. It’s to be expected. 

Now I know about the cycle of abuse. I know that when you said you could track our relationship on a sinusoidal graph of happy versus angry, that’s because that’s exactly how it works. That was five years in however, too late to reverse at that point. 

Everyone also told me that we should be more physical. 

Sure we held hands, we hugged, we cuddled. 

That wasn’t enough though. 

I told you as much. I told you I wanted to kiss you. 

And I did. 

I was also scared. 

I was terrified you would judge me on this, like you judged me on everything. That you would take something that should be so simple and nice, and ruin in too. 

I was right, just not the way I thought. 

You forced me to hold still. Held me up against the wall outside the gym. Held my arms down. Stuck your tongue in my mouth. 

I literally ran away. I remember laughing about that at one point, while relating it to a friend. At the time, we both thought it was hilarious. 

I look back now and I cringe. 

I’ve kissed people since you, and it has ranged from pleasant, to delightful. I enjoyed the few kisses I shared with the first glasses wearing flute player. I treasure the kisses I continue to share with the second glasses wearing flute player. 

I dreaded the ones I shared with you. 

Even the ones I initiated. 

Especially the ones I initiated. 

Because for you, the kisses were always just a means to an end. 

How far can I make her go? How much can I touch? Where can I touch? If she pushes away my hand, how long before I can try again? 

Can I touch her breasts? Can I run my fingers across her stomach? Can I unhook her bra? Can I take it off? Can I run my finger under her waistband? Can I put my hand in her underwear? 

Every time I would stop you first. 

Every time I would say no. 

And you would apologize, and say of course not. 

And then ten minutes later you would be trying again. 

You pinned me to your bed and forced me to kiss you until your stubble wore a burn on my chin. There are pictures. 

I lied to my mom and told her I fell on a carpet and got rug burn. 

I told you that I wanted to do other things than kiss. I wanted to talk like we used to. I wanted to just hang out. I wanted to not always have to be touching you. 

You agreed. You said you would try not to. 

Try. 

Like it was something you didn’t have a choice about. 

The next time I was over you put your hands in my pants and you tried to make me come. It was a pitiful attempt honestly. I’m not just saying that because I didn’t want it. Even if I had wanted it, it wouldn’t have worked. 

Honestly I’m glad you had no idea what you were doing. 

If you had succeeded, it would have taken so much longer to realize what you were doing to me. 

Sometimes I wonder if you think about that differently than I do. I wonder if you think you knew what you were doing. I wonder if you think I came, when I finally got bored of you flailing your hand around down there, and pulled it out and distracted you with something else. 

I’m pretty sure you did. 

Otherwise I doubt you would have forced my hand on you. 

You held it there. 

On your dick. 

I pulled away, and you put it back. 

I was clearly uncomfortable, and you kept forcing me. I think you wanted me to reciprocate. 

Well, sorry, sweetie, I did to you exactly what you did to me. Grazed and then left. 

At one point I said to you “I only trust you to stop when I know there’s a time limit.” 

Why wasn’t that a warning sign for either of us? 

I mentioned it to our best friend and she said “That’s just how boys are,” while we picked blueberries one summer, “You have to set very clear boundaries, and make sure they listen.” 

I don’t think she knew it, but she wasn’t the first person to imply that it was my job to police you. From the very beginning, when I was your only friend, others told me to tell you things. To help others. To be nice. To not be an asshole. 

Friends. Family. Teachers. 

But when I did, in the only way you would understand, I was the one being mean. Not frank. Not honest. Not communicating, like I know you would understand. 

Mean. 

I was being mean. 

Before you left for school, and told me you wouldn’t have time for me. You told me that I wasn’t going to be the priority. 

That gave me perspective. 

I knew that wasn’t normal. I knew that wasn’t supposed to happen. I had friends who made time. I had friends who made it a priority. 

I said before you left that I wanted to break up. I said that I wanted to just be friends while you were gone. Stated outright to your face and somehow you missed the point.

Either that or you just ignored me. 

All I know is I got a call from you, asking if everything was okay. Saying I wasn’t acting normally. You explained that I seemed less affectionate. 

I re-explained. 

You said you’d need sometime to adjust and think about these changes. 

Like...I’m sorry what? 

What changes? 

You’ve just been forced to acknowledge the situation. Nothing about it has changed. 

Two weeks I heard nothing from you. 

Not a single thing. 

Then suddenly, a message pretending everything is okay. Like nothing happened. 

Like you didn’t pretend I didn’t exist so you could ‘cope’ with the ‘change’. 

Fuck you, and fuck that. 

I lost my shit. I told you everythign you’d ever done to me. I told you what I’d learned in the past two weeks. I learned to be without you again. I learned what you had done to me. I learned who my support was. I learned who could make me strong. 

It sure as hell wasn’t you. 

I told you never to speak to me again. To leave me alone. You violated me and ruined me. You did not deserve to be around me.

Almost six months after, you did what you always did. You ignored my wishes completely and utterly. 

You sent an email. 

You wanted to meet, to apologize in person. You said it would allow you to properly express yourself. I convinced myself that if we did it on my terms, it wouldn’t be bad. I could do it. I could see if I could still be my new me around you. 

You were so clearly uncomfortable. You started with small talk. Dancing around the issue. Talked about how your new girlfriend was crazy and obsessive and dangerous. 

I talked about how my new girlfriend was sweet and supportive and wonderful. 

You looked uncomfortable. I have to admit that I find that amusing now. 

You, uncomfortable, while you have me almost literally at your beck and call. 

I thought I was there to see if I was me, but I was really there to prove that you still had me under your thumb. 

When I started writing, I wanted to send you this letter. 

I’ve written a fifteen letters to you and destroyed them. Burned them. Buried them. Shredded them. I’ve run out of ways to destroy them. Every time I write one, I tell a little bit more. I remember a little bit less. I feel a little bit different. 

Not better. Not worse. 

Just different. 

And now, because of you, I know how to be mean. I know what it’s like to be mean. I’ll never forget. 

So yeah, fuck you. 

 

Insincerely,  
OLH


End file.
